So Far, So Untitled
by ShineandBurnFireandDeath
Summary: Ugh can I do this part later?


He glared at the ceiling so hard that it seemed he would burn a hole through it. He wouldn't be surprised if he did, which would undoubtedly be followed by a rat falling through said hole and onto his face. He imagined how his face would look if it found itself with a rat on it, probably like someone who squeezed a lemon into their eye. Nevermind. He _never _wanted to think about the lemon incident _ever again_. He made a horrified face at the memory, and twiddled his thumbs faster than the speed of light. _300,000 miles per second_, the useless information that he was forced to learn in school felt the need to remind him. _Fine then, _he retaliated, _then I must be twiddling my thumbs at 300,001 miles per second. Because I totally have the capability of doing that._  
He rolled his eyes at his own sarcastic (everyone who's read this seems to disregard the word sarcastic) inner dialogue; he sat up and swung his legs over the bed, which then proceeded to groan like his Grandpa Ken. He was not achieving anything by lying around and having pointless conversations with himself. Sometimes, he worried for his own sanity. He exhaled thoroughly while tapping meaninglessly on his legs. Without a set destination, he stood up and brushed a hand through his distressed over-cooked-pancake colored hair. It became clear that a destination would not be necessary, as he began pacing around the room. It was a horrible habit of his which was usually followed by his mom sarcastically (please tell me you didn't not read "sarcastically" again) scolding him about dirtying the carpet underneath his feet.

He was being unnecessarily anxious, he knew it. It's not as if he was going to live with strangers. The house he was to move into was going to be filled with people dearest to him, including his boyfriend. (Here, he took a moment to fondly sigh about said boyfriend.) Then why was he so nervous? Precisely for that reason. He had never met any of these people in real life before, obviously he couldn't wait to meet them. But this was different. He wasn't meeting a bunch of vibrantly colored animals on their hind legs in a bright place with dozens of dangerous butterflies, (that's actually really creepy when you think about it) but a gang of _his _Alphatards, ages ranging from 18, (Pancake and Sunny) to 28. (Adam) Those in serious relationships with people outside of the Alphatards were dragging their respective others along for the ride. He was going to meet them all, whether he was ready for it or not. He couldn't back out of it now. He'd spent a great chunk of his savings on the flight and on his share of the house. (For the sake of me not shipping everyone to some random house in the middle of nowhere, I'm going to pretend we're moving to a certain place. Don't worry! I haven't bought a house there yet. (But we should so move there.))

It was only three more hours until the bus would come and only tighten the knot of anxiety, both nervous and excited anxiety, in his stomach. Suddenly he felt a bite of panic curl in him like an internal vise as he scanned the room in which he had cried of jubilation and disappointment, anger and pride in. Otherwise known as _his _room. He tried to stuff all of its characteristics into his brain, because the only thing that is private is your mind. He concentrated on the way the shadows darkened in the corners and the way the carpet seemed to be swallowed by the wall when it reached its end, as these were things that he'd usually forsake, and then it'd be missing in the mental picture of his room, and that just wouldn't do. Then, he simply laughed. He rolled his eyes at himself again, eyelashes teasing his eyebrow, and began to mentally gather himself up as he walked over to the bathroom to brush his hair, which was messy from all his hand-through-hair antics.

As he aggressively pulled the brush through his hair, willing it to untangle and just _cooperate _with him, for _once, _his cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID. His normally stormy blue eyes flashed with lightning revealing the depth of them, and his jaw falling until his mouth was a perfect _O. _He quickly shook his head and gathered himself (again, wow, he was really good all letting himself get to that state where he needs to be gathered) before he swiped his thumb across the screen. (And of course, being the average human, frowning at that stupid oil streak left by his thumb.)  
"Hello?" Oh god, that wasn't right, he hoped he didn't sound as...himself as he felt.

"Hey Taylor, it's me!" (Yes, yes, his name is Taylor, no more annoying "he"s.) Taylor's heart dived and became lodged in his throat at that familiar lilting voice. Of course, he'd die before he let his stupid heart get in the way of him talking to...  
"Spencer.." His voice came out in a strangled whisper that made him want to facepalm for his complete lack of manliness. So he did what anyone would have done. He lightly coughed and prayed that whatever was in his throat (not his heart this time) would kindly _fuck off._

Taylor could practically hear the smile in his boyfriend's voice. "I just wanted to remind you _not_ to freak out, since I'm doubting that you remembered not to on your own." Taylor almost let out a "Nuh _uh!,"_ but then realized that that was exactly what he had been previously doing. Freaking out, that is.  
"You know me too well," Taylor said breathlessly. Apparently, whatever was in his throat did not take kindly to "_fuck off"_s. He was starting to feel an awkward mixture of calm and anxious at the same time. It wasn't fair that Spencer made him feel that way. Taylor made a face like he would if he were eating a lemon (oh shit we already covered that we are _not, _N. O. T. going back to that lemon incident,) when he realized he'd been _pouting _at the fact that Spencer was so amazing. _It's just not fair!_ He thought to himself.

Spencer chuckled. "Oh Taylor," suddenly both men were quite for a minute. "Taylor… I can't- I can't describe what I feel like right now."  
"It's ok Spencer. I get it. I feel really nervous about finally meeting you too. But I have no doubts about you. I have no regrets. I don't know what will happen, come tomorrow, but I know that whatever does happen, it was meant to. Because things like this don't just happen. People don't meet up online through a kids game and initiate a five year virtual relationship, even though it feels more than real to me, only to move in with each other, granted with twenty-something other people, for no reason." (Because run-on sentences are ok in dialogue. Don't pretend you don't talk in run-ons sometimes!) "Us, you and me, it's real. No matter what anyone else has said in the past, I know how I feel about you. And tomorrow will show us if we have a chance together in the real world." Taylor squinted his eyes and wondered how the words in which he'd been struggling to string together for hours suddenly tumbled out like a well-rehearsed speech. He bit his lip and prayed that whatever luck that gave him this magical power would stay. Forever, please.

"Oh Taylor, baby, that is _exactly _how I feel. It's funny, I usually know how to put my feelings into words extremely well"  
Taylor rolled his eyes "You immodest dick!"  
On the other side of the phone, Spencer chuckled. "That's for later, babe."  
Taylor pursed his lips. _Damn. He's using his hot-Spencer voice... WAIT WHAT DID HE JUST SAY!? _"W-what!?" he managed to splutter out.  
Spencer just let out a loud laugh. "You're so cute. Talk to you later."  
Taylor apparently wouldn't be getting his answer. He rolled his eyes. (AGAIN) "Later, babe."  
He lowered his phone and pressed the end call button. (And wiped the screen on his shirt, but that goes without saying.) He allowed himself a moment of silent happiness before continuing the Battle of the Hair.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a cramped and uneventful bus ride, a long line for baggage check, a frankly unnecessary (in his case, at least, not so much in mass murderers who wanted to bomb him on the plane,) security check, and a short wait of about fifteen minutes at the gate, Taylor found himself sitting at 31A, (a window seat, thank his lucky stars,) with his earphones coaxing music into his ears to distract him from the turbulence and his head pressed against the glass, with a sixteen hour flight ahead of him.

Needless to say, he sighed.


End file.
